


His Guardian Angel

by BartyMellvue



Category: Grand Theft Auto IV, Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games)
Genre: A riff on a friend activity conversation, CW for canon typical drug/alcohol use, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildest Niko/Kate but not enough for me to tag I don't think, Rated M for subject matter, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23766937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BartyMellvue/pseuds/BartyMellvue
Summary: It's another night out with Liberty City's own son, Packie McReary, and another one of his self hate spirals. Niko isn't always his best during these sorts of things, but he's there. And he wants to believe that he always will be.
Relationships: Niko Bellic/Packie McReary
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31





	His Guardian Angel

“I’m drunk and _stupid_ tonight—”

“Again.” And Niko wasn't, really. Okay, he _was,_ but he was also _mostly_ driving between the lines. His blood alcohol level was over the limit, so definitely _legally_ so— but sitting next to Packie? It was no contest. They’d just left their regular haunt at Steinway where they drank, played darts, and then drank some more afterwards for good measure, and now he’d been driving him home. 

“Again… Aaaafuuuckin’ _-gain.”_ The other man murmurs, beginning to _writhe_ in the passenger seat, something bubbling up inside him to the surface, no doubt another one of his tangents, set off by whatever insignificant thing it was that could have happened earlier in the evening that would send him over the edge, like this. “You're leadin’ me _astray,_ Niko!” McReary gestured an accusing finger in his direction, his other hand clinging to the dashboard, with far too much confidence in his words. “You're leading _me…_ Down a _no-good path_ of _wine_ … ‘N _women,_ an’ _song,_ and _good times_ and _tears!”_

“You didn't seem like you were on a good path. _When we met, I mean—”_ Niko chides, giving him an amused, _dismissive_ look, and looking back to the road and suddenly having to recklessly screech the car a hard right after seeing just how far he was over the center. He’d become well acquainted with the concept of having to _babysit_ the guy whenever he’d gotten twelve times more fucked up than he was, _going on about whatever it was that he decided to be angry about tonight—_ but Packie’s mouth was left _agape_ at the implication, as if it weren't completely true, immediately retaliating the moment he saw that his friend had apparently thought of this as _funny._

“Fuck you, I was a _choir boy! —_ A _cherub_ _!”_ His voice sort of dips mid-thought, but comes back with a hint of desperation, “An _angel sent down to live amongst men,_ that's what they _told me!”_ And Niko could already hear it coming, Patrick’s spiral that would always occur not that long after leaving whatever establishment they’d graced with their raucous. But as his attention was still focused on the road, hyper aware of the way he was driving when there was always a cop on every other block, McReary held his tightly clenched fists at the sides of his head, as if trying to get through to himself.

“Man, I gotta straighten myself out, I can't go on like this—” _He’d vowed this before, to no avail._ “I’m a fuckin’ _mess…”_ Maybe the wavering in his tone was apparently too subtle, or maybe Niko just wasn't grasping it any differently than he did the other times, having been used to this routine by now. “I ain't gonna make _old bones,_ I know _that,_ but I’d like to hit _thirty!”_

_“Sure.”_ He really wasn't the best when it came to _tact_ during these practically one-sided conversations, and no matter how much _weight_ was held in the words that Patrick spewed, within the context of another night out? They never registered with him. Everybody Niko ran with was either a pessimistic or self-deprecating fuck, or _both_ , and it was really hard to tell how serious it was at any given time. Even if he did, it wasn't much use when the other man wouldn't remember half of it by the time he would rise the next day with his hangover during the tender hours of the afternoon. At least that's what _he_ thought.

“I’m _drunk_ and _coked up,_ _every night—_ I doubt I’ll see another _six months!_ And if it's much longer I’ll end up in _… Prison,_ like everyone does…” His body swayed with a corner being taken, and whether or not Niko would notice, his eyes had been welling up, and the hysterics in his voice were just becoming audible, and yet, it seemingly hadn’t affected the slav strongly in any which way. “Oh man, I can't take it, _I can't fucking take it—”_ He doubles over the dash, having not been heded by a seat belt of any kind, his face turned right towards the man who may have been the most important friend he'd ever cultivated, and he _looked_ at him, _in the eyes,_ not missing a single beat.

 _"— S_ _hoot me_ _.”_

Niko’s eyes widened, ever so slightly. 

“—Shut up!” _That was his gut reaction._ It wasn't exactly appropriate, but that was his instinct, and Packie doesn’t get upset with the unscrupulous response— he refuses to relent, his deep voice reverberating through the air between them with all of the anguish he found inside of him of every single fucked up thing he’d experienced in this lifetime, and takes a grab at his arm, as if really begging him,

 ** _“Shoot me in the head!”_** It was only _here_ where Niko began to be taken aback by tonight’s display, trying to pry his grip from his body, of which had been so strong, something had finally convinced him that maybe there was something not at all deeply settled beneath McReary’s outer appearance that had been deadly serious in what he was saying.

“You're drunk, shut up—!” He ungracefully tries _loudly_ talking him down, and he pulls him off, without much force at all, _but with the assistance of a recklessly veering vehicle,_ Packie was effectively thrown off of him to the other side of the car, but he was seemingly unfazed by this.

_“Fuck you!”_ He shouts, “I’m not _drunk!_ I’m _sober as a lord!”_ With the strongest insistence, just to be ignored.

“Whatever—” _Again, not finding nicer, understanding responses from his better self within him_. But somehow, in a middle ground where he’s _aware_ he’s not being the best, but not dwelling too much at the same time over it. He’d felt the smallest pangs of guilt after hearing the things that he said, his ears possibly ringing from his volume in the closed space of the car, and that was just enough. _He makes a small glance over at him._ Lying there, close to motionless. He lets out a grunt, _stained_ with the regret of not being a little more delicate with him, before his attention returns to the road. 

“—Just fucking _cool it,_ Packie, I’m taking you home… _You’re fine.”_ He says this, yet specifically having the nagging feeling that he _wasn't_ fine. But he was trying to rationalize this. _All of them—_ they were _all_ this same kind of _messed up,_ they all had _issues,_ and emotions about said issues would _typically_ be exacerbated by the alcohol. _This wasn't that far out of the ordinary._ Nothing that Packie couldn't… _Sleep off._ That's what he thought, that’s what Niko was telling himself in his head as he put the radio up a bit louder on the younger man’s favorite station, deciding to take the long way around Meadows Park to finish out a track or two, as if it were any consolation. 

In time, they pulled up to the McReary Residence. But the McReary in his passenger seat wasn't moving. 

He hadn't said a word since the heated, suicidal exchange— and neither did Niko. The silence between them was just excruciating, he’d really thought the radio would have made it better, but hearing a song they both knew without the other man humming, let alone _singing_ had unsettled him. He reaches for the dial, turning the volume down, expecting him to wordlessly get out, if he’d really been that upset with his response— but nothing occurs.

_“...Packie.”_ He looks over, finding him basically lying on his side; if he’d had enough strength or coordination in him to pull his legs up onto the seat, he would probably be in something resembling a fetal position, he was about halfway there. _So, he wasn't mad at him, or anything. He just couldn't move._

Niko lets out a groan, getting out of the vehicle and coming on over to his side to get him out. If there was a literal fall-down drunk, it was him— but usually he’d be able to get out on his own. So maybe he was right about him sleeping it off, not remembering tomorrow, if he was still this fucked up. 

“Alright, _come on—”_ He pulled his body up out of the car, Packie’s arms had been flung around his neck, clinging to him like some dying starlet before Niko shifts, keeping just the one arm around his shoulders as he went to walk him up the front steps of the house that had been in the family’s possession for longer than they’d been alive. 

McReary’s head hung low. He still hadn't said anything, and the limpness of his body wasn't dissimilar to that of a spent child— worn out, simply unable to function any longer. At least whatever all of _that_ had been that he’d just gone through in the car, _that_ was all over, and a merciful God would let Patrick pass out the moment he would get in the door. They now stood outside of it, and Niko realises upon the attempt to get in— _locked._

“...Where do you keep, the uh—” _Packie lets out a groan_ , the only noise he’s let out so far, and before Niko could finish, the younger man’s body slunk out of his hold to pry a key out of the crack of a brick a little low to the ground with his fingernails, coming back up, _~~returning to the safety of the other man’s support~~._ He struggles to put the key through the lock, and Niko uses his other hand to momentarily steady him at the wrist, finally entering the keyhole and getting it unlocked— immediately being met with the sight of another set of stairs upon opening. And for now, _now that the man that he held had become far less irritable,_ enough to be practically held by him without anything being made of it, whether it be protest or a crack about it— Niko surrenders. _Everything,_ the overthinking, the unneeded justification, and he _accepts_ this role— Packie’s keeper, or his _guardian angel,_ as it had been put so gracefully upon their meeting in Bohan. 

Here they were, a month or two later, their lives permanently intertwined, for better or for worse, as he quietly helped him up the steps. 

By the time they’d gotten to the top, the man's knees had fully given out, his feet dragging beneath him. He weakly pointed out the room of which he’d occupied and _suffered_ ever since he was a child, and still does, much later. _It was something about Irish Catholics never moving out of their parents’ house until they're married, no exceptions. It was the subject of a conversation before._

Niko has to traverse the maze that was on his bedroom floor, obstacles consisting of piles of clothes peppered with beer bottles, pencils and pens, and ammunition, all strewn about in _chaos,_ before making it to his bed— and in a somewhat gingerly fashion, as opposed to dropping him, he’d gently placed him down, and he was ready to put this night behind them. He was ready to leave with the thought of feeling just a little better about what had transpired after he’d carried him up here without getting on his case—

But he just had to look at him, in the face, in the _quickest_ of looks, doing a double take to see that his cheeks had been streaked with tears, fully illuminated by the moonlight that poured in through the window. And now all he could hear in this sudden clarity was Patrick’s breathing, familiarly patterned with that of a sob being stifled within his chest— the smallest sounds, becoming so _obvious_ to him now, it was as if they’d been completely filtered from his perception before.

_Fuck._

He’d spent the rest of that drive here trying to shove down any thought of him being in any serious mental torment— _no,_ he’d spent the ride trying to tell himself whatever he was experiencing wasn't _serious,_ and that had made it _much_ worse on his psyche.

All of Niko’s reticence in any forbearing interactions with any other person, his inhibitions in taking part in anything he or others viewed as too tender, or just too much— _of which through an upbringing by a cruel father and experiences in a war where he was not allowed to do so_ — for _now,_ within the solid brick walls of the McReary home, _just like that,_ he’d buried those instead. Burying them in order to do _what,_ exactly— he wasn't quite sure. 

_“Packie—”_ he breathes his name again, his voice so much softer than he or anyone else in this city who knew him was familiar with, taking a distinct step closer to the bed, desperately searching his mind for something he could say to him here. _“...You good?”_ With or without the language barrier, there was no getting across his profound dismay verbally alone. Patrick doesn’t respond right away either. _No matter if he wanted to say anything better than just that,_ he was certain that the other man had been burdened with the very same emotional limitations, forcibly thrust upon him by the environment he’d been brought up in, that both of them had been, despite their massive differences— that Packie wouldn’t accept… _Words._ He knew he wouldn't.

Instead, Niko had been running on instinct alone as he reached out for him, _as there was no chance for physicality to be lost in translation—_ and his hand met his face, softly wiping away the man’s tears with the edge of his palm. Packie felt the heat of him just a fraction of a second before this occurs, his body freezing up— until his skin makes contact with his, making every hair on his body stand up on end. Every action Niko took before this, he _understood._ Like, you help the man you've been drinking with walk when he can't, and maybe that extends to helping him up to bed. That's your guy. That's your friend. Hell, maybe _this_ was a friend thing, but he sure as hell never got this close to anybody in this kinda way.

Nobody was _like this_ with him. Maybe not since he was a child— with the exception of his mother, of course— that was a given, but it was probably only Gerry who gave enough of a shit about him as an adolescent, along with the fact that his life had been the very same living hell as his own, letting his youngest brother bawl into his shirt was almost an obligation to Gerald. _Nobody else._ Niko had just unknowingly forced his way into this small circle of people who’d ever done anything like this for him, and he could never know how profound that was. 

His eyes were already closed, but he was shutting them tighter, and Niko was compelled to employ his second hand to hold his face, to continue drying his cheeks of the cruel mist. It was enough for Patrick to bring his own hands up to touch his, _wanting to pull them off of him,_ but he couldn't find his grip, nor the power to.

“Do not…” His low, accented voice knells through the thick air between them. _“...Do not say that to me. I would never shoot you.”_ It surely wasn't the most poetic way to put it, but Niko didn't know how to get his point across without the fabled melodrama that would be rebuffed in an instant. Packie even lets out a single laugh, but without sound, at the phrasing. But he was deeply sincere, though his head was beginning to pound, likely only a fraction as much as his. “I would… I would not let anything bad happen to you, Patrick. I _won’t,_ I mean. _After everything I have already let happen—”_ Or rather, _actively taken part in._ But Packie still hadn’t an inkling to the fact that Bellic had McReary blood on his hands. So what he said _confused_ him, and even in his haze, with his weak voice, his trembling hold still on the hands that held his face had wanted to assure him, swallowing the lump in his throat before speaking.

_“Man, that—_ that’s got _nothin’_ to do with you, Niko, _none of that's on you…_ That’s all _us,_ all _our_ shit.” And in his fragile state, he wouldn't correct him either. There may never be a right time to tell him that he was the one who killed his brother, upon instruction of another. 

_“—Maybe,”_ He says, letting another silence linger between them, as well as his hands. The tears had stopped rolling down Packie’s cheeks, but Niko, for whatever reason it may be, couldn't bear the thought of letting go of his face just yet, and internally, had decided that he wouldn’t stop. At least not until the other man let go _first._ Patrick wasn't even thinking about the fact that he was _still_ touching him, if he was going to be honest. He was more preoccupied with the concept of him taking such action in the first place.

Regardless, he still couldn't find it in himself to open his eyes and look back at Niko. He was already seeing him like this, he didn't want to see _him_ in the process of _seeing_ _him_ _,_ you know?

The perfect opportunity to separate this episode from the rest of the night, a possibility for it to end and for him to take his leave had arisen as Packie inhaled _deeply,_ letting out a long, raggedy sigh in its wake, his hands slipping off of his in order to fold his arms over himself— and Niko hesitates a bit, but retreats, and in a way mimicked him by crossing his own arms, making an almost uncomfortable look around the room, as if there was something very interesting, like, _Oh, what a great Joan Jett poster he has._ He’d hoped that Patrick wasn't overthinking just how long he’d held him, or thought of the implications of it in the same way that he was right now, but nothing implied that he was.

 _“Man, I’m fuckin’ fadin’—”_ He mutters, his head rolling onto its side. Niko’s gaze upon him was still quite doleful in his engagement with tonight’s events, and something about the interaction still hadn't quite felt complete enough for him to feel good about leaving him on his own. He still didn't know if he was… Safe. _On his own._

 _“You good?”_ He reiterates, from a moment that felt much longer before now than it must have been in reality. “You never said anything.” 

Patrick felt a twinge in his chest. _Man, is he really that fuckin’ worried about me?_ Part of him felt like shit having made him so. Christ, it felt _real_ awful, actually. He gets a case of the suicidals every once in a while, with the way he lives, it would be weird if he _didn't._ He’d be able to shake them off eventually, even if it was a little unhealthy to think of it as being so normal, _but what the hell about his lifestyle isn't?_ But he didn't know if he was gonna be able to shake off Niko’s concern, afraid it wasn't gonna _ever_ subside. He clears his throat to respond in something similar to his regular speaking voice, as if to convince him that he would be telling the truth when he said,

 _“Shit,_ fine as I’ll ever be, Niko boy. _I guess.”_

_“Right.”_

“—I mean, _no._ I’m alright, man. _Honest.”_ What the hell was he gonna say to him? _I’m sorry for asking you to shoot me in the head, I think I’m better now—_ or maybe the more direct, _I’m not gonna off myself tonight, I promise?_

His eyes open just a sliver, nothing that would be noticed, to catch a glimpse of him. Seeing where he stood. _Tense._ There was really no knowing what was going on inside of Niko’s head right now, but with the kinds of imagery he’s seen as a child, a young teenager— and now in his current day-to-day life, there was no doubt he could picture that horror Patrick had pleaded for without any effort at all… Maybe the sentiment of him being so shaken up by the thought of any harm coming to him meant something.

_“...I do not think you are.”_

“None of us are.” Packie unknowingly echoed the same exact frame of mind that the other man had previously been trying to maintain— just like that, they were now on opposite sides of this, just as soon as Niko made him feel like too much of a liability. “And there’s nothin’ any of us can do about it that doesn't involve changin’ the way we live… And I’m sure as shit not gonna do that anytime soon.”

_Nothing we can do._

He lets out a scoff. _Yeah._ Maybe the two of them were too similar for their own good. But Niko gestured his hands out with a shrug, taking a look at his general surroundings in the dark of Packie’s childhood bedroom before getting down to the floor with a sigh, and leant his back up against the wall, right by his bedside— lounging, one knee up to his chest as he stared ahead.

Neither of them spoke.

Sure, Packie desperately wanted to go, _what the hell do you think you're doing?_ But that may have meant getting the man to tell him, _to his face_ , that he wasn't gonna leave him, just to make sure he didn't shoot himself in the fucking face as soon as he left— and Niko would not reiterate to him just how many people he’d lost, how many the _both of them_ had lost in such a short span of time. 

If there was the smallest possibility… And if there was _any way_ that he could prevent that _outcome,_ no matter how miniscule the chances, he was going to. 

Was it _weird?_ Niko sitting down beside him to effectively _keep watch?_ Was it _overbearing?_ Absolutely. But he would be lying if there was something about all of this shit, _somebody caring about him like this, to this degree,_ that satisfied something in him that had been pushed so far down with the neglect he had endured in his upbringing, that anybody doing anything like this for him was some kind of pipe dream.

Somebody refusing to leave his side, when doing exactly that was encouraged.

Packie almost didn't know how to cope. His lips were parted, trying to understand the mere idea of this kind of compassion that this _strange man_ who came into his life was giving, and _expressing,_ through saving his life upon occasion and finding it in him to care about him, a societal undesirable. The gears were turning in his fucking head. _He can't fucking process it._

But he begins to slowly peel his layered shirts off in a unit, over his head, leaving them in the small gap between the bed and the wall where small accessories or useless trinkets went to die— and wriggling out of his jeans, of which he just left crumpled at the edge of the bed by his feet, before getting under the defense of the covers. 

He momentarily thinks about Niko burdening himself with sleeping upright against a wall, and considers letting him up into his undignified nest— but decides against it. But he still felt weird about it. Yet, not weird enough to turn away from his direction as his eyelids grew heavy, coming to close.

Niko’s head sunk into the soft side of the mattress. He’d slept in much worse places. The only comfort he cared about here was the edge of the bed, and the awareness of his friend’s safety when he drifted off to sleep— and possibly his presence, in itself.

~

Morning came, at approximately six forty-five, to be exact.

Another night out, another strange woman brought into their home for casual fornication— At least, that’s what Kate had assumed. And she was _right_ to assume, she’d heard two sets of footsteps in the night. What else could it have been? Patrick was _known_ to abuse the fact that their mother needed the world’s best tranquilizers just to get to sleep at night, putting her into the deepest of near-comas that were impossible for any _sound_ to rouse her from. It occurred so often, and at this point, he was nowhere near careful as he still should have been. It was usually _her,_ up at her early hour, the first to rise in the house, kicking the harlot out before she woke. 

She was more than used to it, but she’d never become too complacent in it. She didn't think of herself as complacent, at least. An acrimony for the way her closest brother carried himself throughout life emanated from within her, and Kate, already fully dressed for work, had come to her brother’s door.

It creaks open, slowly revealing the environment. The mess. His things. His thin, drug abuse evidenced body— no frame of an equally life-worn woman beside him, nor clung to his waist. It opens further. _Niko._ Fully dressed, in repose, the expression in his face while still unconscious was almost seraphic until his body forced him awake with the smallest stirring that had been the youngest McReary child coming to kick him out. He let out a little groan, and Kate became the first sight he woke up to. And upon his first notion to look to his right— Packie became the second, and he saw his body rise and fall with his breathing. Still out cold. Still alive.

Niko was bleary eyed, rubbing the murk of slumber out of his face, managing a weak smile at her as he carefully got up, not wanting to disturb a single thing in the minefield he’d slept overnight in.

_“Hey.”_ His voice was deep. Like, it was already deep, but just waking up deep was _deep_ deep. She takes in and lets out a breath through her nose, not _meaning_ to smile, but doing so anyway, out of her power. There was no waking up her brother, but her voice was soft, regardless.

“What did you get up to last night?”

“Normal sort of thing. Mostly legal social outing kind.” She’s almost _endeared,_ for a moment putting her hand over her heart while he manages to stand on his own two feet without the support of the wall behind him, straightening out his clothes. His gaze repeatedly drifts between the two children, but it was a bit laboured in his attempts to not make it _weird._ Kate, dressed conservatively, but Packie, his bare shoulders peeking out from the blankets, a sight he’d never seen. He was already somewhat petite, but without even his shirts ever so slightly bulking him, he almost couldn't fathom his talents involved in the usual things they got up to in terms of criminal activity. 

“Couldn't make it home?”

“No, I was fine.” He gestures a hand towards his friend’s sleeping vessel, trying to think of words to describe what had occurred in brief, but had no idea how much to let on— out of respect for him, giving Kate the bare minimum of information, wanting to give her the opportunity to infer on her own. “...Had to help him to bed.”

“And you stayed?”

 _“...Yeah.”_ His face begins to drop, and he may not have realized this. Again, he looks to Packie, but his stare had been fixed upon him, _forlorn,_ even if he felt a bit better about everything knowing that he would see the sunlight at least once more today. Kate begins to interpret what she was seeing. But she doesn't say anything. 

_“...Packie’s in a bad way,”_ Niko murmurs lowly, and that was where he would draw the line in the sand over just how much he would confide in her about her brother’s business— though he was sure that she must have at least had a clue about his state.

_“When isn't he?”_ She may have come off as dismissive, but there was a definitive flavor of sadness in her delivery. _Again, maybe this wasn’t exactly big news to her._ But Niko’s eyes finally met hers from across the room, _still standing at an arm’s length away from the younger man_ , with a sad visage.

_“Please look after him for me.”_

His words rung through in a way that had unsettled Kate, making her take hold of the door frame. 

“I always do. I _try to,_ Niko.” She says, _as he tilts his head,_ as if to say a typical effort like business as usual would not cover it, and she reaffirms. _“...I will.”_ Her head lowers, as if in a bit of shame, before walking off to continue her morning routine. Niko is surprised to get another small moment with Patrick while he slept, and alone together, didn't feel the pressure to avert his gaze a little more than he did. 

He was _still_ a cherub. A cherub who got up to un-cherubic activity. 

And Niko looked at him as if he were really an angel. 

He brought a hand up to his face, and his eyelids fluttered shut as he gently pressed his lips to his fingertips in a kiss— pulling them away and letting them fall, making contact with the other man’s scarred cheek, without any evidence of the possibility of him waking up for another several hours, and he was finally able to walk out.

With every step down the stairs, he'd repeated the sequence of events of the previous night as he remembered in his head, still weighed down by it— and he looks for Kate, finding her about to prepare breakfast for herself, as well as Ma, who could be just waking up any minute now. Her mouth opens, about to offer for him to stay, _as Ma probably wouldn't mind, and would actually nominally understand and be pretty fine with the prospect of Niko having stayed the night—_ but before she can get a word out, he raises his hand in refusal. She sighs. But she smiles.

“You think you'll get home alright? I could probably drive you.”

“My car is across the street. It’s fine.”

“Didn't see one outside.”

“...I’m sure I will manage.”

“I _know_ you will. Everybody’s car insurance rates in this city going up may all be because of you, _managing.”_

Niko laughs, but he knows he probably shouldn't. It wasn't doing him any favors in solidifying her opinion of him as a good, but very flawed man, even if in her eyes, out of every criminal she was unfortunate to know, he may have been the least so.

“I’ll see you. _Maybe tomorrow,”_ he muses, zipping up the front of his jacket as he made his way towards the front door. _“...But please—”_

_“I’ll make sure he's okay.”_

He runs a hand over his stubble, just a little bit longer than it was the night previous, giving her a nod.

_“Thank you.”_ He mumbles the words out, only just beginning to wonder how his concern looked in her eyes, and what she could discern from it— and he leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> So THIS is what I've been sitting on for a few months. I was sitting on just the actual friend conversations worth for a few months, and then I got started on the rest of it after MUCH discussion in the discord server. I was so close to giving up when it was almost but after ONE very long editing session I was like, okay, I might be able to publish this today. 
> 
> Thank you to aintgonnaleaveyoumikey, Miles, Hope, who read this in various states of finish— and SAL and MAV who kept talking to me at this UNGODLY HOUR OF ME STILL BEING AWAKE.
> 
> OH OH OH BY THE WAY i'll get back to CITDAN and MHLB soon i just had to get ONE of these oneshots our cuz i have like, 5 of them and they were all stressing me out having so many WIPs and I wanna work on all of them at once so yeah. THANK YOU!!!


End file.
